Like a Light
by Chevira Lowe
Summary: The life of a child should be simplicity incarnate, but the life of a ninja is anything but. (Kakashi-centric, pre-Gaiden, hints of child abuse)


Like a Light.

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AN: More random mindfuck stuff. Taboo subject matter, on top of that. If the idea of barely-described child molestation bothers you, run away now.

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It was cold, and he was six years of age.

In any other village, six meant just old enough to tie one's shoelaces. In the Hidden Village of the Leaf, it meant that you were a shinobi. It meant that while you weren't considered an adult, or consulted as one, you could be sent out to fight and to kill and to die.

He'd graduated two months ago, spent as long with his Jounin sensei, and now he was on his own, because he was the best of his age-group, and the only one who could do what was now required. Assassination. It didn't seem an ugly word, but then, to a child, everything could be considered beautiful. The eyes of the innocent see many things that are worth seeing only because they can be viewed purely. To be jaded is to be a good shinobi, because innocence dies forever young.

He was six years of age, and he was cold. He couldn't even use his chakra to warm himself up, because he had been given explicit instructions not to reveal himself as being a ninja. He was okay with that, because it was part of the mission, and if Kakashi knew one thing in life, (asides how to tie his shoelaces) he knew how to complete an assignment. The fact that he was six wasn't a factor in this implacability; moreover, it was because he was his father's son, his mother's legacy, and the genius of Konohagakure's young elite.

His name was Hatake Kakashi, and he was cold. But he was also patient, and so he would wait.

The man had a brilliant smile. Quick and clever, open and honest. But he had a darker side, as everything seemed to. If viewed innocently, he might be remembered fondly. If one were to know the truth of the man's life, they might have tried to kill him.

He was also an important figure in Mizugakure's militaristic defense. He wasn't a shinobi, but he was a masterful tactician, the youngest son of the owner of a shipping company. Rich and nearly royal, twisted and strangely kind. Anything could be taken as kindness if presented well enough, after all. How long after an extended period of starvation would a moldy hunk of bread seem a pleasantry? How long after being exposed to the cruel elements would a ragged blanket seem a wealth?

So the man invited the young boy in from the winter's chill, set him down in front of a roaring fire and sent servants to fetch drinks and food, fresh from his oven's kitchens. And later, when the man asked how the boy planned on repaying him, he had only one thing in mind. The fact that he'd gradually discarded clothing over the course of the evening as they sat by the fire and discussed things that the man had considered childish indulgences, and that the boy had considered dull was not a coincidence.

Kakashi was six years of age, and he'd been prepared for this.

He didn't cry. It was just part of the mission, after all.

Afterwards, there was silence, save for the slow, soft ticking of a clock, somewhere to his left. If he breathed shallowly enough, the arm flung across his chest didn't hurt so much, and the pain elsewhere could likewise be ignored. The man had been gentle, but that hadn't helped. In other villages, six was only old enough to tie one's shoelaces, after all.

Kakashi laid there until the blood started to bother him, and then he pushed the cold, limp arm away from him and crept out from under the satin sheets, and studied the body curiously. In the post-coital haze, the man hadn't noticed the quick slash of a kunai across his throat. Hadn't expected his young paramour to suddenly become a small whirlwind of teeth and claws and something like revenge, only colder. And now he was dead, and his eyes were no longer smiling.

Kakashi stared at the body for a long time, and puzzled. It took very little to kill a man. One lucky hit, one chance blow. The strongest man could be taken down by a mere whim of lady luck. The weakest could be the one to land that blow.

Kakashi was six, and he concluded that life made no sense.

And when his sensei showed up abruptly, a single flash of bright yellow light, called his name in a sharp, hoarse yell and found him, half-naked and still covered in blood, the boy didn't cry. His sensei did. Quietly, like the clock on the wall, and he held him and stroked his hair and told him that everything would be all right. It sounded like he was the one who needed convincing, and his fingers on Kakashi's small shoulders were like vices, and it seemed he might never let him go again.

But Kakashi already knew that everything would be okay, because Kakashi was a ninja. Either everything was all right, or you were dead. And though there was a funny, empty feeling in his chest and the pit of his stomach, he was most definitely not dead, because he was still breathing.

His sensei tried to carry him, but he insisted on walking, because he wasn't a child. And maybe his walk was rather more of a limp, because he was still sore and everything hurt, and all he wanted to do was go home and hide away from the world that had made him feel so dirty. His sensei had looked at him oddly, tears still smudged across his cheeks, (he hadn't known about the mission, after all, and Kakashi had volunteered) and gave a single, strained nod, ruffling his hair once before stepping back and allowing him his space.

On the way out, Kakashi stopped to tie his shoelaces.


End file.
